


Bats

by Paganaidd



Category: Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Gen, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:46:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paganaidd/pseuds/Paganaidd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is worried about Batman. He finds someone to talk to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bats

Bruce Wayne was not at all what Marshall had imagined. The man glanced behind himself, back into the hallway before closing the door. For a man of his wealth, he wore very down market clothing. The black raincoat was removed with precise movements and hung with care, revealing a dark brown suit that was missing the exquisite tailoring that Marshall had noted in the various Wayne Enterprise photographs and press releases that he’d been studying since he’d agreed to see him.

Wayne looked very uncomfortable in the suit actually, so perhaps he’d put it on because it didn’t match his usual style. A captain of industry like Bruce Wayne clearly didn’t like to advertise that he was seeing a shrink. One of the queries that the man’s assistant had had was whether Marshall employed a secretary and was there a time when his office building was less well traveled.

Marshall noted that Mr. Wayne’s face was impassive to the point of blankness as his eyes swept the room. He didn’t immediately sit down in the waiting room, but rather walked around with his hands behind his back, apparently studying the books and decorative pieces as if they were of interest.

Wayne’s eyes flicked up to the security camera in the corner of the room. He stared at it for a minute with narrowed eyes, then he returned to his apparent perusal of the magazine rack. He gave every indication that he was aware of being watched. He dropped his cell phone onto the floor, using the action of picking it up to glance under the little couch. Marshall was intrigued, the man’s actions reminded him of the soldiers he had treated. People who couldn’t enter a room without surreptitiously looking for IED’s.

The man’s assistant had made the appointment, his cultured voice explaining that Mr. Wayne needed an appointment with a therapist who had Dr. Jones’ particular background, and that he’d require absolute privacy.

The conversation with Alfred (as the man introduced himself) had been...odd.

“I received your name from a Ms. Lois Lane.” Alfred had informed him by way of introduction, “I’d like to make an appointment for Mr. Wayne at your earliest possible convenience.”

“I’d be happy to meet with him, ” Marshall had told the man, “But, I really prefer to have my patients make their own appointments. I need my patients to be committed to their therapy.” He left the, "So if they can’t be bothered to make a phone call, I figure they’re not," unspoken.

Marshall Jones was a specialist in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He worked with soldiers, human trafficking victims, refugees, humanitarian aid workers--all people who had seen the very worst life and humanity had to offer. He took other cases to pay the rent though. He just didn’t know how much longer he could cope with listening to the First World problems and existential angst of the wealthy but insured people who kept his lights on.

“Yes, of course. But Mr. Wayne is far too busy and I handle his calendar.” The man informed him with a slightly disdainful lilt.”

“No. Listen.” Marshall put his foot down before this high handed man could push him into taking a client he really didn’t want. Rich brats were not something he wanted to deal with. “I really can’t make an appointment this way. Tell Mr. Wayne to call me himself.”

“Ms. Lane informs me that you see many of your patients at a discount. Is that correct?” asked Alfred carefully.

“Yes.” Marshall had a sliding fee scale and there were several who couldn’t pay at all. He had no idea what Bruce Wayne would want to know that for.

“Mr. Wayne has instructed me to tell you that he is willing to pay the difference between the full fee and the discounted rates for all your patients for the next month if you would meet with him.”

Marshall didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled by the blatant bribery.However, he knew that Wayne did like to adopt causes. God bless Lois. She must have sent Wayne to him for that very reason--if he could get in as one of Wayne Enterprises philanthropic ventures, he could stop worrying about the VA cutting his funding again. Even this one time grant would keep the wolf from his door.

However, there was the integrity of the therapeutic relationship to be considered. He needed to set some proper boundaries. “I’d be happy to meet with Mr. Wayne,” he said cordially, “but I still need to make the appointment with him. It’s the best way to guarantee his privacy.”

 Apparently that was the right thing to say, “Yes, of course. I see. Please hold.” So, privacy was a hot button. Good to know.

After a moment a very different voice, affable and friendly, picked up, “Dr. Jones? This is Bruce.”

“Ah, yes...Your....assistant said you wanted to make an appointment?” Marshall found himself unaccountably nervous speaking to the man.

“That’s right.” Bruce was as warm and jovial as he appeared when he spoke on TV. “Lois said you were the best. But, Alfred really does make all my appointments. I’d never be on time for anything otherwise.” His laugh was charmingly self deprecating.

After that Marshall had just made the appointment with Alfred.

The man who was now prowling around the little waiting room didn’t seem like the person who belonged to that jovial voice. Wayne peered up into the security camera again. The expression on his face was unreadable. He glanced at his watch, then looked up at the camera again.

Marshall started, he’d gotten so caught up in observing the man through his webcam, that he was late for the appointment.

He jumped up, careful to turn off the webcam screen before he shut the laptop

“Mr. Wayne?” He opened the door to his inner office, putting on his "trustworthy professional" face.

Wayne's stony impassivity transformed into a smile as the man stepped forward with his hand extended, “Please, call me Bruce,” he said, pleasantly.

Marshall noted that Bruce’s body language was suddenly friendly and almost gentle. He was a bigger man than Marshall had thought from the pictures of him. When Bruce shook Marshall’s hand, he leaned forward with a quick nod of his head in greeting. He made himself seem a little shorter and less broad. He had the manner of a self assured man who didn’t need to intimidate people, rather he wanted them to be at their ease. Gone was the leonine vigilance of a moment ago.

“Come in and sit, please.” Marshall waved vaguely at the seats in his office, wondering where Bruce would sit. Powerful men like him usually gravitated to the plush easy chair opposite Marshall’s desk chair.

Bruce surprised him by walking over to what he’d always thought of as the “PTSD spot”; a padded but less comfortable armchair against the wall next to the desk. It was opposite the doorway and all the windows were visible as one sat there.

“Would you like coffee?” Marshall asked, indicating the little coffee pod machine.

“That would be great.” The man smiled, giving every impression that he was completely at ease. That was fairly unusual in a patient's first appointment.  “Do you have any French roast? With milk and sugar.” His voice was a smooth baritone with hints of New England prep school. He took off his jacket and put it around the back of the chair, before he sat down. 

Marshall nodded and pulled some half and half from the little dorm sized fridge, along with a box of cookies.

He set a plate of cookies and the cup on the desk in front of Bruce and made his own. Bruce murmured a thank you, but made no move to drink from it. He sat with his legs crossed and his elbow on the desk, his posture open but guarded. Marshall felt a disconcerting sense of being studied.

Marshall’s instincts for his patients were usually pretty good, but Bruce was giving him so many mixed signals that he was having a hard time getting a feel for the man. He sat at his desk.and took a sip of his cup, giving his whole attention to the other man.

Bruce sipped his own coffee then.

“So, what brings you to my office, Bruce?” Asked Marshall, picking up his pen.

“I...ah...I need to ask you before we get started...This is all confidential, right?” Bruce leaned forward straightening his arm and tapping the desk nervously. The first tic of that kind he'd shown. 

“Yes, of course.” Marshall grabbed a HIPAA form out of the open file drawer, “This spells it out. I’d have to be subpoenaed in order to release any records.” he put the form on the desk.

“I’d rather there not be any records, to be honest.” The man blushed. Interesting. Perhaps Bruce Wayne’s reputation was not unfounded. The scandal sheets were always full of rumored indiscretions. Perhaps he also had some proclivities he thought were embarrassing. “Some of what I have to say is...shall we say...a little on the ah...controversial...side.” He cleared his throat and looked away, his nervousness mounting. “Lois told me that you are a little more flexible about your mandatory reporting than some.”

Marshall had treated men and women who’d committed crimes in self defense or defense of other people before. Sometimes the Law just didn’t need to get involved, “That’s true, but there are certain things I won't keep confidential.” He said slowly. If Wayne had evil shit on his conscience he needed to confess, Marshall didn't need to know. That's what priests were for. The last thing Marshall needed was to be treating some pedophile or other variety of scum. He never treated perpetrators for fear of murdering them himself.

“Such as?” Bruce's eyes narrowed and his voice dropped an octave into a gravelly growl. His expression turned hard and he leaned forward, as if he ready to stride out of the door.

“Sex crimes--not consensual acts. Things like rape or molestation.” Marshall said flatly, “Human trafficking. Arms dealing. Drug crimes that aren't limited to just your own usage. Clear and present dangers to self and others.”

His prospective patient seemed to mull that over, before finally sitting back and smiling gently. “Have you ever treated a vigilante?”

“That would be violating confidentiality to confirm or deny that.” Marshall replied, unsure where that was leading, “But I am not anti-vigilante, if that’s what you’re asking.” Perhaps Bruce was trying to vet him to treat someone else. He couldn't think of anyone Wayne Enterprises was associated with, but it wouldn't be surprising if Wayne Enterprises had it's corporate finger in that sort of pie. He could do that. Most of the civilian masks had methods that were unorthodox but not outside of his own personal code. Certainly it wouldn’t be anything new.

Bruce took a deep breath, “What do you think of Batman?”

“Hmm. Well, honestly I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t disapprove of his actions although his methods are occasionally problematic. However, no more so than any other masked crusader. The desire for secrecy is...hmmm...understandable. Why?”

“He scares me a little. Lately he’s been...I mean I’ve been...” Bruce seemed to steel himself and, for the first time in the conversation, he looked away when he spoke. “Well, you see...I’m Batman.”

Delusions of grandeur. Interesting that they should happen in someone who was already so highly placed. Marshall put on his best professional face, “When you say you’re Batman...are you speaking metaphorically? Lots of people imagine becoming a masked vigilante to right the wrongs in the world.” It was never any good to try to play along with someone’s delusion.

Bruce smiled slightly, still looking down at his coffee cup.  “No, I’m not speaking metaphorically.”

“Can you tell me a little about what it’s like to be Batman?” Marshall asked carefully.

“You don’t believe me.” Bruce's eyes came up and he leaned back in his chair, looking more comfortable. Marshall wondered if the man found it reassuring that he wasn’t taken at his word when making such an outlandish statement.

“Well, I’ve had people make those type of claims before.”

Bruce nodded agreeably, “Yes, I’m sure. However, it’s not a claim. It’s true. And he’s becoming...” his smile faded, “A little disturbing actually.”

“ _He’s_ becoming disturbing?” Marshall pounced on the wording, since it was the second time Bruce had used the third person.

“Yes.” Bruce’s soft grey eyes narrowed, turning hard and steely. He pressed his mouth into a thin line. The man sat up straighter and his shoulders seemed to expand. He leaned forward in his chair and uncrossed his legs, his posture taking on a tense quality, again giving the appearance of a man who was ready to jump up at any second, “Although perhaps I should clarify. He’s not Batman.” His voice had dropped into that harsh bass clef again, “I am.”

Marshall’s mouth went dry, “I see.” he said, “You mean that you’re not Bruce Wayne?”

The man shifted in his seat, again taking in the room as though to look for threats. “No.” Here was the hyper-vigilance Marshall had seen just now in the waiting room. This was a man with the bearing of a soldier, instead of Bruce's easy, nonthreatening grace

Marshall waited while the man silently sat in his chair. It was a skill he’d perfected as a professional listener, that ability to wait through long awkward silences. Still, after a very long pause, that one word seemed to be all the man was going to give him.

“So, who are you? Exactly?” Marshall started to write a note on his notepad only to have the other man’s large hand cover his own.

“No records.” The hand gripping Marshall’s was strong, its hold not exactly threatening but firm enough to give Marshall an understanding of its inherent strength. After a moment the other man let go, but took the pen.

“Ah, I usually write notes on my client’s cases.” Marshal said, a little unnerved, “If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t. However, that’s a good pen. Can I have it back?” He thought that this Batman persona was going to need some hard boundaries. Taking personal objects like that was often just a way of seeing how far Marshall could be pushed. These first few minutes always set the tone for the rest of the therapy.

The large man tossed the pen so it landed in one of the empty coffee cups sitting on top of the fridge.

“Can you tell me why I can’t keep records?” the psychologist asked.

The man shook his head, “Too dangerous. Anyone close to me could be a target.” he frowned, “It’s bad enough that Bruce dragged me down here.”

Paranoia along with everything else, “So it’s for my protection?” Marshall asked carefully. This actually wouldn’t be the first time he’d been asked not to keep records. Marshall had a few clients who asked him that. One of his rich housewives was married to a crime lord. Marshall never even wrote her first name in the appointment book. He just noted her as “V”.

Most likely Bruce’s caution was from not wanting to be hounded by the press, but this second persona was convinced he was a crimefighter. Gotham’s most controversial at that.

“Tell me about why Bruce dragged you down here.” Marshall wrapped both his hands around his coffee cup since he wasn’t going to make notes.

The man relaxed against the back of the chair and picked up his own coffee, “You have to understand,” his voice had gone back to that smooth baritone, “Lois suggested this. She doesn’t like Batman that much. But he said he’d come because...well, we went to visit Harvey in Arkham...”

“Harvey?” Marshall interrupted.

Bruce nodded, “Yes, Harvey Dent,”

Marshall’s face must still have been blank,

“You know, the District Attorney?” Bruce said, exasperated. Marshall nodded, remembering the name.

“I’m paying for his therapy and his reconstructive surgery. Anyway, we were talking and I started thinking that Batman was maybe a little unbalanced, you know?”

Marshal would have laughed except that it would have been highly unprofessional, “Well, it’s a little unusual to have another person living in one’s head.” he said with a straight face.

Bruce shrugged. “With superheroes, it’s not really all that strange. I mean, most of them are doing the whole secret identity thing too.”

“I suppose.“ Marshall was a bit at a loss--it occurred to him that Bruce was right about that, but he decided to let that go for the moment. Instead he got on with the first session interview, “Hmm. So what was it about your encounter with Harvey that made you think you needed to speak with someone?” Marshall asked slowly.

“I don’t really know, to be honest.” Bruce said quietly, “I just don’t want to end up like him.”

“So you think Batman might hurt someone?” Marshall felt himself tense, remembering more of the Dent case. His eyes stray almost involuntarily to the decorative cane that was on the wall in front of the desk. He’d had to deal with violent patients before, but Bruce was much bigger than he was.

“Hm?” Bruce asked seeming startled. That change in muscle tension was visible again, and he quaffed the remains of his coffee before chuckling darkly. The sound of it raised the hair on the back of Marshall’s neck, “Only the right people, Doctor.” That gravelly voice said. Those steel colored eyes flicked to the cane too and the man raised one sardonic eyebrow.

Marshall was still in practice with his hand to hand combat, but he was pretty sure from the way he moved that this Batman persona was likely as good. “Who are the right people?” Marshall asked to distract from that unspoken challenge.

Those grey eyes gleamed with eerie and righteous light, “The people who threaten my city.” He paused, as though interrupted by someone, “Well, we’ve been taking care of the whole world lately.” He grated. Marshall assumed the man didn’t smoke, but he sure had the smoker’s voice going on.

“We?”

“The Justice League. Me. Bruce.”

“I notice that Wayne Enterprises has its hand in a lot of charitable organizations. Is that what you mean about Bruce? He’s the financier? He makes the financial decisions?”

That was met with very different laughter, rich and easy, “No, believe it or not, Batman is the one who's good with money. He’s the CEO as it were.” Bruce leaned back with his elbow on the desk, “You could say I'm the Chief Operating Officer. I make the HR decisions and see to the day to day operations. Meet with stockholders--that sort of thing.. He isn’t too good with people.”

Marshall nodded slowly, “I can see that.”

“Do you, Doctor?” Batman grated, sounding offended.

“No offense intended, it just seems you’re a little...introverted compared to Bruce. We’re not all good with people.”

“Hmm.” The man rumbled. He stood up. Marshall wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who paced when they were nervous, so he assumed Bruce/Batman had sized up as much of the room as he/they could sitting next to the desk.

Batman walked around the room as he had walked around the waiting room, peering at the books, wall hangings and tchotchkes that sat on the shelves. He stopped at the picture of Marshall standing in front of a camel wearing his desert camo.

“Where did you serve?” It was Batman who spoke, suddenly, “Lois told me you were a soldier.”

Marshall nodded. Many of his patients wouldn’t go to see a shrink who hadn’t been there, as it were, “Afghanistan, attached to a special ops unit. I was in Bahrain for a while. Then, after I got out, I worked with Medicine Sans Frontiers in various places in the world.”

Batman crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Marshall from his considerable height, “Special ops? A psychologist? Were you an interrogator?”

“No, thank god.” Replied Marshall, holding the man’s eyes. He decided that it was best if he told this man the truth. Not all of it naturally, but some, “No...I was involved in a more direct project. I handled weapons.”

Batman stared at him some more and a wary expression of respect lit his eyes, “So you worked with...”

“People not unlike yourself--or at least who you’re claiming to be.” Marshall said softly.

For a long time the big man stared down at Marshall. Finally he rumbled, “I suppose Lois wasn’t completely out of line to suggest you.”


End file.
